Page 22

“Sheona! Over here!” Brodie’s command tore through the gloom. Sheona turned and scrambled up a slippery clay bank, her hands clutching at wet rocks until she reached his side.

Brodie was crouched at the edge of a narrow, waterlogged game trail. His large hand hovered just above the mud, pointing toward a clear line of tiny, scrambled footprints that sank deep into the mire, leading sharply upward toward a rocky outcrop shielded by ancient oaks.

Perched against the crag stood an abandoned shepherd’s hut—its stone walls sagging with age, its thatched roof rotting, yet its heavy timber door stood slightly ajar.

“He went inside,” Brodie grunted, springing to his feet.

They covered the remaining distance in seconds. Brodie shoved the wooden door open with a dull thud, stepping into the dark, dry interior with Sheona hovering right at his shoulder.

In the far corner, huddled on a bed of dry, forgotten bracken, sat Angus. His small knees were pulled tightly against his chest, his arms wrapped around them, his wool plaid soaked and heavy. His face was pale, his dark eyes wide and shimmering with unshed tears.

“Angus!” Sheona dropped to her knees before him instantly, completely ignoring the rough stone floor biting into her bruised legs. She reached out, her hands trembling as she smoothed his damp dark curls away from his cold forehead, her eyes frantically sweeping over his small frame.

“Are ye hurt, sweet lad?” she whispered desperately, her voice thick with emotion. “Did the thunder scare ye? Tell me, please!”

The boy shook his head slowly, a heavy tear spilling over his dark lashes and tracing a clean path through the smudges of earth on his cheek. He looked up at her, his lower lip quivering uncontrollably.

“I heard ye callin’ me,” Angus hiccupped, his small voice tiny and hollow inside the dry stone hut. “And then, I heard ye shoutin’ at Father. Ye were arguin’ so loud, I thought I had done somethin’ terrible again. I thought… I thought Lady Sheona was going to leave because I was bad.”

He swallowed hard, reaching out with a tiny, mud-stained hand to grasp the wet sleeve of her cloak, his voice dropping into a desperate, heart-breaking whisper. “Please… daenae leave.”

The words struck Sheona, shattering the lingering fury in her blood and leaving only a deep, profound ache. She pulled Angus into her arms, pressing his cold, wet face into the crook of her neck, her hands cradling the back of his head as she held him tightly against her pounding heart.

“Oh, sweet boy,” she breathed into his dark hair, tears pricking her own eyes. “Nay, nay…”

Before she could finish, Brodie’s voice echoed through the small hut.

“She willnae leave,” Brodie said firmly and clearly, stepping closer, his shadow falling over them both. “It is her duty to stay by ye now.”

Sheona’s head snapped up. She shifted her gaze toward the giant standing above them, meeting his stern eyes with a look so fierce, so sharp with cold, blazing defiance, that it burned brighter than the lightning beyond the doorway.

Slowly, deliberately, she looked back down at the small boy trembling in her arms. She reached out and softly cupped Angus’s cold cheek with her warm palm, tilting his face up until his dark eyes met hers.

“I will stay because I want to stay,” Sheona said, her velvet voice steady and resolute, carrying every ounce of truth in her soul. “Ye are nae me duty, Angus. Ye are me friend.”

Angus let out a ragged sob and threw both of his small arms around her neck, clinging to her as if she were the only solid thing in a crashing world. Sheona held him close, kissing the top of his head, feeling the wild, terrifying tension finally drain from his small body.

Brodie stood silent for a long heartbeat, his throat working as he stared down at them. Then, with a quiet, unusual gentleness, the Laird knelt beside them. He reached out with his massive, calloused hands and lifted Angus easily to his broad chest. He unclasped his heavy, dry wool plaid and wrapped it securely around the boy, shielding him completely from the cold draft.

“We must move,” Brodie murmured, his dark eyes sweeping the creaking rafters of the ruined hut. “This roof willnae hold if the wind turns. It is nae safe to linger here.”

“Aye,” Sheona agreed, wiping her cheeks as she pushed herself up from the stone floor.

She turned to follow Brodie toward the narrow exit. But as she stepped across the threshold, her foot caught on the wooden frame, and her gaze dropped to the rough timber jamb.

Her heart skipped a beat. Cold horror flooded her veins, freezing her mid-stride.

Carved deeply into the damp wood at the height of a man’s chest was an ancient, jagged mark: a crossed spear through a broken wheel.

It was the secret border-mark of Clan MacFaris. A mark she had seen her brother Andrew etch into boundary posts a hundred times. And the pale wood exposed inside the cuts was fresh. The sap was still sticky.

Someone from her father’s lands had been inside this very hut within the last few hours.

Sheona’s breath hitched violently, her lips parting as she turned her head toward Brodie. “Brodie, look.”

Before the word could fully leave her mouth, Brodie shifted Angus in his arms and placed his bare, broad forefinger firmly against his own lips. His dark eyes narrowed in silent, absolute warning, commanding her not to utter a single word in front of the child.

Brodie looked down at the fresh carving. His jaw hardened into ruthless, predatory steel, his posture shifting in a single second from a protective father back to a deadly laird on high alert.